


Of the Vertiginous Sacrifice of Sentiments

by Halighfataliter



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 16:08:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halighfataliter/pseuds/Halighfataliter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur comes back in the secret hours of dusk, draped in pale grey light and tiredness</p><p>Coda to episode 8, season 1. (Mordred)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of the Vertiginous Sacrifice of Sentiments

Arthur comes back in the secret hours of dusk, draped in pale grey light and tiredness. You have been waiting for him all night, silent vigil in the cold stillness of the dark, but as you watch him emerge from the morning mist and dismount in the deserted courtyard, you don’t breathe any better.

He wears on his face the shining exhaustion of those who know that they have done something good, that they have fought for a worthy cause. And this is painfully wrong but how you can tell him that he just –that you just, wrote down his downfall?

So you curl up in the fading shadows, aching to howl like a wolf or cry like a mother.

 

On the twenty second step, you stop to take a breath, leaning against the wall, gasping for a lungful of scorching air. Arthur’s rooms have never seemed so far, so high and you run a shaky hand in your hair.

You have been restless for days now and people are starting to notice. Arthur looks at you searchingly and Gaius offers his help but you don’t have a question anymore and all the answers have already been given.

There is only the enormity of what you’ve done now, of what you haven’t been able to do and there is nothing that Gaius can do against the insidious uneasiness bleeding into your soul.

 

It may be the fact that you haven’t slept well for weeks or maybe the too bright smile of the Prince that make you come out of your stupor and snap. You’re not sure; your mind is fuzzy and you’re only aware of the fight breathing fire in your veins.

All day long you taunt, you bite, you bait and push with the desperation of a drowning man; but it’s already dark outside when Arthur finally thumps his fist against the table and shouts at you.

His anger feels good and for a moment you’re elated at finding him again. But then his body relaxes and you can read confusion and hurt underneath the frustration and the world is crumbling down around you again. You whisper words of hate and run away.

You’ve lost track of where you are and where you are going but your feet won’t stop running.

 

Gaius finds you outside the hawk house. He crouches down slowly and puts his hand on your shoulders and you hear Arthur and furious and worry and talk to me Merlin but you’re not really listening. You are weeping.

Silence stretches and you realise dimly that it is your doing. You blink and look up to meet ageless eyes, blue and worried. He seems to be looking for something, and you’re not sure he finds it, but he brushes away your tears nonetheless, fingers rough against you skin, against the bruises underneath your eyes, along your sharp cheekbones. He pulls you against him -tightly, lovingly- and shares your sorrow even though he doesn’t know what you are mourning.

You can’t find the words to explain. A prat, an egoist. A friend, a prince.

 

The potion is foul but Gaius assures you with a gentle smile that it will help you sleep. Arthur refuses to see you and you feel drained, empty of energy and magic, so you swallow and ignore the rising bile in your throat. You stagger toward your room, almost tripping over the few steps and finally fall gracelessly on your bed. Sleep claims you immediately, gathering you in its steely wings. There is blessed nothingness but absolution is evasive and you wake up sweaty and scared.

Every night you dream of death and apocalypse. You dream of blood, hot and dark against your palms and Arthur and blue blue eyes, an everlasting echo in your skull.

 

You haven’t been to see the dragon ever since. You don’t want to hear his riddles and mocking voice. You don’t want to face his knowledge. You don’t want to see your guilt reflected in his shining eyes.

So you ignore the roar resounding in your head, just like your ignore Arthur’s glances and Gwen concerned touches. Instead you look into the horizon and long for golden fields and dark forests, a small village and a warm home. You smell soup and your mother’s skin in the wind.

You whisper that you’re not made for this life, not cut for this job, but the wind is cold und cutting and there is no one else with you on the ramparts.

 

It takes time, the child since long a distant memory for everyone when you finally understand and accept that this is your destiny.

Many things are written about you, you know, but no one has ever told you what is predicted. You are fairly sure though that it tells of your magic and Arthur and Albion. About healing past wounds and unifying a people. Your smile, your joy, your love, are not meant to be remembered. Neither are Arthur’s old days.

And it makes you sad to think that you will fade from being what you really are, that you will become composed and wise, bitter and disillusioned. That you will shoulder more guilt and anger, that you will face more death and dilemmas, that you will be old when you ought to be young.

You won’t deny that you haven’t thought about leaving Camelot, about running away until you recapture your innocence, until you can remember handsome princes and delicate ladies no more. But always, the very thought of leaving him stops you. He would be bare and vulnerable to the world of magic. He would be hurt and distrustful once again. He would think you don’t care. Your heart misses a beat. Unthinkable.

He is your destiny. You understand and accept now, and you smile. It doesn’t matter.

Arthur smiles back at you.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2008.


End file.
